


Mandelbrot

by SkeletalConstellation



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Both Mike and Gerry, Bureaucracy, Character sort-of death, Childhood Trauma, Distortion Gerry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gerry uses newfound eldritch powers to bury the archives in red tape and safety violation reports, Gerry's dead but he got better, Gertrude is perpetually seething, Horror, Human Michael, I swear this is interesting, Implied Sexual Content, Labor Unions, M/M, Michael is Stressed throughout the story, Monsters, No Sex, OSHA violations, POV Alternating, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Protests, Psychological Horror, Red Tape, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Specifically there may be saucy long-winded metaphors, Spiral Gerry, but there's no actual banging, in this house we hold Gertrude responsible for her actions, so much red tape, the canon stuff, things that could be a euphemism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkeletalConstellation/pseuds/SkeletalConstellation
Summary: Gerard Keay, or more precisely what was left of him, wasn’t dead.But God, did he wish otherwise.After being forced to become the identity of the distortion, Gerard Keay is left with bitter feelings and an unfulfilled vendetta towards the Magnus Institute and its current head archivist. With the protections Gertrude Robinson has placed on herself and the archives, however, payback won't be easy- he needs to think outside the box if he wants to bring the archives to its knees.Of course, there is also the minor complication of Gertrude's annoyingly loyal archival assistant to deal with, but surely that is only a minor caveat to Gerry's plan- right?
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 40
Kudos: 124





	1. Achilles and the Tortoise

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea and the discord server I'm in encouraged it, so this one goes out to all y'all over there- Enjoy!

Gerard Keay, or more precisely what was left of him, wasn’t dead.

But God, did he wish otherwise.

By all accounts, he  _ should _ be dead. His own life was to be forfeit for the good of humanity, he knew that- that was, after all, what he had agreed to by following Gertrude Robinson onto a ship piloted by the avatar of the Lonely into the icy Russian waters to a place that didn’t exist. What else  _ could _ this trip have resulted in, other than his own demise? His death was inevitable, anyways- no one working in this business seemed to live a long and happy life. He was ready and willing to die for his cause.

He was not, however, willing to commit himself to a fate worse than death.

And yet, here he was, permanently stuck like a monkey wrench thrown haphazardly into the Distortion’s perfect machine. 

The entirety of his being, physical and psychological, felt like it had been turned inside out and then haphazardly put on by another entity, like an old sweater on a sleep-deprived college student. 

To say his ordeal was in any way, shape, or form over would be incorrect. True, the  _ ritual _ was over and done with, and he was no longer actively becoming (or unbecoming) whatever it was he was now- which was a question all to itself; he was not  _ Gerard Keay  _ in the sense that he was not the man who had walked in here. No, he had been here this whole time as something that was definitively  _ not _ Gerard Keay, but the identity of Gerard Keay had been suddenly and abruptly deadbolted to him, much to his own frustration and agony. 

The ordeal of being identifiable was almost too much for such a being of unidentifiability to bear.

Keyword: almost. 

No, the thing that was now Gerard Keay would not be so easily defeated. Both his and its incompatible minds could agree on one singular common opinion, one truth that connected them in spite of their key differences:

Gertrude Robinson to blame for their predicament.

Perhaps this is why, as he(it?) wandered the endless twisting labyrinth of halls, he found himself actually going in a specific direction. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was ingrained. Maybe it was simple chaos bringing about the most unlikely of events.

Whatever it was, Gerry- or perhaps the thing that had become him- found himself approaching a door, of indeterminate shape and size, at an end of the endless hallway. 

Even before he turned the knob, he knew where it would take him.

London’s own Magnus Institute had never been a particularly friendly place for the former Gerard Keay. In fact, he found the building to be a particularly hostile environment for the entire time he had the displeasure of knowing it. With his mother, it was the den of at best a rival, at worst a bitter enemy. Under Gertrude’s supervision, it had proven itself to him as nothing short of a glorified mausoleum, the final record of many who had sought answers to their fears only to have those answers come far, far too late.

The current Gerard Keay found it even worse. He didn't know what kind of protections Gertrude had put on the place, what deals- or sacrifices- she'd made, but he felt the full brunt of it as he entered the building, forcing him into existing in only three dimensions as opposed to his much more comfortable infinite. A thin film of cobwebs on his doorframe proved to be the culprit- of course she had made deals with the web, why wouldn’t she? Only the younger half of Gerry’s divided identity was surprised- the prior Gerard Keay would have known Gertrude would have taken such precautions before she even planned her trip to Sannikov Land. The Web manipulated, puppeteered, controlled all within its net, which, for a being of chaos and misdirection, put quite the damper on his abilities and attributes. The powers of the Spiral were still there, but the very entropy of his current state of existence was clumped together and restricted, like a clot in the arteries of paradox. 

It was a trapped feeling, and neither the past nor current Gerry was particularly pleased about it, but without the powers of his patron Fear he wasn't particularly in a position to stop it, either.

On the other side of the door there were footsteps, quickly approaching his location. As much as he'd like to make his current displeasure known, it was not the time nor place, and revealing himself to an outsider this early in the game could prove disastrous for him later- he did not want to find himself on the business end of Gertrude's arsenal.

And so, he retreated behind the door as the footsteps drew nearer, committing himself to waiting for an opportune moment to meet with his prior state's employer.


	2. Bootstrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael has a long day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyy our other half of the dream team!

To say Michael was a nervous or jumpy person would be a gross understatement of his character. 

He had once been told by someone he couldn't remember that he was someone who had never outgrown the monsters in his closet, and that they doubted he ever would. He hadn't argued with them, of course- doing so would only serve to cement him in their mind as 'crazy', something far too many people he knew and loved already thought about him.

Which is why, as soon as he realized that the door he was in front of was not the door to the archives, namely because the door to the archives had never been baby blue with a garishly out of place dinosaur decal on it, he knew he had to tell Gertrude. 

Gertrude had been the only one who had ever heard his story and had not immediately given him that look of disbelieving sympathy he had grown so sick and tired of over the years. She had actually listened to him and took what he said at face value- something not even his parents had done. For all her rough exterior and stony demeanor, Gertrude Robinson was the one and only person he still trusted to take any of his claims seriously- and she was the one who would make everything alright again.

He was going to tell her about this door.

At least, he was, before he turned from the door and immediately crashed into someone who seemed equally out of place.

The man Michael had managed to barrel into was tall, but still a fair bit shorter than him, dressed in a black band tee for a band Michael didn't recognize. Smudged eyeliner and tear-ruined mascara that had long since dried onto his cheeks, long hair badly dyed jet black and woven into an impossible braid. The man raised an eyebrow, and Michael was suddenly overtaken with a feeling of  _ wrongness _ , despite him consciously knowing there was nothing visibly amiss with the man. The deeper part of his brain, his instincts, all told him to run, begged him to flee this mysterious gothic man. He did not run. 

"Ah- can I help you, sir?" 

The goth man leaned in closer to him, squinting at him, then circled around him, seemingly sizing Michael up. Michael started to feel a sense of deja vu- something about this man was  _ familiar _ , but he couldn't put a finger on what or why. Finally, once he fully circled the archival assistant, he spoke.

"You work down in the archives, yeah? One of Gertrude's people?"

Michael swallowed, his head nodding against his better judgement to not tell this familiar stranger anything. "Yeah, uh- she's in her office, do you want me to go get her for you?"

The man smirked, and Michael felt his heart speed up as adrenaline instantly rushed through his veins, freezing him in place. 

"No, that's alright- you'll do."

With hands that felt like rubber gloves full of shards of rock, the man shoved Michael backwards and through the door behind him.

He fell backwards, landing on his rear in a hallway he'd never seen before. He sat there for a few long moments, still stupefied, until he finally managed to regain enough control over himself to pick himself up and get his bearings.

The hallway was long,  _ impossibly _ long, carpet and swirling wallpaper as far as the eye could see. He could see several mirrors along the wall, reflecting that same maddeningly long hallway over and over in an infinite number of infinite reflections of the exact same thing. He turned to retreat, leave this terrible place through the door from whence he fell, but was greeted only by and equally extensive hallway stretching infinitely in the other direction.

He started walking down it anyways.

And then, as the terror of his situation started to settle over him, he started to run.

As he reached a mad sprint, his legs carrying him as fast as they could, his mind started to process where he was.

He had been eaten by a monster. He was, quite literally, in the belly of the beast- which beast it was, it surely did not matter, it was all the same in the end.

He was going to die.

He was going to die, and no one would even know.

Would they even remember him? Or would he be passed off as a hallucination, never existing in the eyes of the world at all, another Ryan lost to disbelief?

His legs gave out eventually, and he fell to his knees, the carpet burning into his skin from the friction. He was silent for a second, shocked, until his terror manifested itself in the form of a sob that he choked on, despair sinking into him like the teeth of a bear trap. He wept for himself, even if it felt greedy to do so- even here, his fear felt like self pity. He had really screwed up now, what would Gertrude think of him dying here, alone, after as stupid a mistake as this had been? Even in death, he was a disappointment, and if he  _ was _ remembered then surely he was an inconvenience, too, with all the time they wasted on looking for him. Then again, when would he ever be worth looking for? What did  _ he _ ever contribute, other than being the perpetual extra, the expendable one? Maybe this was for the best.

He was too caught up spiraling into his own thoughts to notice the thing that had appeared behind him until it cleared its throat.

"Hey. You. Blondie."

Michael turned around, immediately shrinking away in terror at the sight of the thing.

It looked like the goth that had pushed him through here- well, no it didn't, not in any way shape or form, yet somehow his brain registered it as the same person. It was hard to look at, the way it warped and shifted with every small move gave Michael an instantaneous migraine, face reforming a dozen different features every fraction of a fraction of a second. Its body was thin, far,  _ far _ too thin, each of its giant hands ending in fingers with far too many joints (or perhaps not enough, he couldn't say). It tilted its head, it's vertebrae- assuming it had a spine- reshuffling to complete the action.

It leaned down, staring at him the way the man outside had, then reached into its pocket(?) And pulled out something, placing it in his hand. 

"Sorry 'bout that, had some business to deal with… had to put you somewhere inconvenient for Gertrude. Apologies if the halls started getting to you."

Michael blinked owlishly, thoroughly confused. 

The thing smiled, its mouth stretching beyond the limits of its face and yet somehow still completely filled with teeth. "These halls can be quite nasty- I suggest taking some time to recollect yourself. How about some ice cream? My treat."

"Ice cream? What are you-"

The thing pushed open a door that was currently under Michael, one that he was sure hadn't been there moments prior, and Michael fell about a foot, landing on worn wood.

He sat up, dazed, in the chair he was now occupying, completely bamboozled. Looking around, he confirmed he was indeed no longer anywhere he recognized, instead now existing in what appeared to be an ice cream parlor. Looking in his hand, he found a crumpled ten pound note, only adding to his confusion

He approached the counter sheepishly, ringing the bell to get the attention of a server. She came over, giving him the regular script of pleasantries and asking him his order.

"This is going to sound strange," Michael mumbled, "but where am I? I seem to have gotten a little turned around at some point…"

The waitress gave him a weird look.

"... Mary's milk bar?"

"Where is that? I mean, the address?"

"19 Grassmarket, Edinburgh."

_ Edinburgh.  _ Well, that thing had mentioned inconveniencing Gertrude- but all the way from London to  _ Edinburgh? _ That was just excessive!

Michael sighed deeply, before ordering a triple scoop of ice cream and looking up the nearest taxi company.

Today had been a very long day, and he had an awful feeling this whole ordeal was far from over.


	3. Hempel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry finds a fun way to reduce stress

Gerry hadn't been around all that much, in spite of the extraordinary power that had been forced to become him. 

He supposed he had taken a brief moment away from his current habitation, but  _ he _ hadn't technically been the one sent out into that ice cream shop, he'd simply dropped Gertrude's newest future sacrificial lamb into it- so, by his logic, as twisted and nonsensical as it is was, it hadn't counted as changing location.

No, he'd been keeping his doors pretty permanently in and around one specific London institution since he got back from the Island That Wasn't.

He placed his doors in all the conveniently inconvenient spots- the Eye could not see past his lies, true, but humans conceivably  _ could _ , so keeping a blue, dinosaur-decaled door in and around places that were inconspicuous was preferable. Hell knew he didn't want either the Watcher or the Archivist poking around his halls- at least, not  _ yet. _

Of course, he  _ could _ play it safe, keep watch from the hallways and stay on guard for wandering archival staff- but that wasn't exactly  _ productive _ in exacting vengeance on the Institute, and he preferred to be a bit more  _ proactive _ in his meddling.

Which led him to where he was now, turning a box of recorded statements into black confetti on Gertrude Robinson’s own desk.

Razor fingers made short work of the loosened magnetic tape, covering the floor in unsalvageable bits of thin plastic. He felt an incredible sense of satisfaction ripping each strip of tangible trauma from their case, joy in each jagged-edged cut, knowing how much invaluable information he was permanently disposing of.  _ Take that Beholding, you nosy piece of shit. _

Of course, he wasn't particularly perceptive of the environment around him- God knows he wasn't the  _ Eye-  _ and that left him unfortunately open to being seen, being watched.

Fortunately, his watcher wasn't particularly good at sneaking around.

Gerry heard the crinkle of stepped-on paper from his left, his hand instantly reaching out to his intruder, too-long talons hovering around his face and neck in a razor-sharp cage. A few curls of straw-colored hair drifted to the floor, severed from the head that had held them by the knife-like digits.

Gertrude's assistant (he thought his name might be Michael or something of the like) stood there, completely motionless aside from the terrified tremble that shook through his entire beanpolish body. In his eyes, Gerry looked completely human aside from the one extended hand encircling his face and neck, warped nightmarishly into a trap.

Gerry tilted his head at the man, taking a good second look at him. His terror at his current predicament practically rolled off of him, invoking feelings of temptation in Gerry- he knew the taste of his fear from when he’d been in Gerry’s hallways, a concentrated dread that had felt like the richest sweetness he’d ever hope to experience. It had taken all of his human will and defiance against his current god to spit the man back out again.

He stepped forwards, backing the man up against a powder-blue door, the tips of his fingers pressing into the wood. This man was marked by him, by his unintentional god. It would be so easy to claim him, so satisfying to watch him become undone, unwound into unrecognizable abstraction from days walking an unsolvable labyrinth-

He mentally slapped himself, bringing his humanity back into play. He was just another poor soul trapped within the Archive’s clutch. To subject him to such a fate while exacting his revenge for being wronged the same way would make him nothing but a hypocrite and prove he was really the monster this man clearly viewed him as.

Instead, he smiled, though from the way the man’s eyes widened he guessed it had failed to be comforting.

“You’re Michael, right? Gertrude’s assistant?”

The man, Michael, nodded, Adam's apple bobbing as he failed to swallow down his fear.

“Have you told her about our last meeting?”

“N-no, not- not yet…”

Gerry pouted a little, mocking disappointment. “I know we haven’t really talked all that much- shame, you seem like a nice enough guy- but I can’t exactly have you, ah… getting Gertrude involved right this moment. Terribly sorry about the inconvenience.”

With that, he swiftly opened the door, letting Michael tumble through it into the ice cream parlor and swiftly shutting the door. A cute little place in Brecon, hopefully he could get himself something before his trek back to London. 

It gave Gerry plenty of time to get the hell out of here and start meddling with something else around here- he’d been meaning to see the artifact storage’s newest possessions.

Of course, it wouldn’t take Michael forever to get back, and he knew he couldn’t prevent him from seeing Gertrude entirely without eating him. He had been lucky Michael hadn’t told her about him yet- he couldn’t rely on him to keep her in the dark for any longer. His time was up, and he needed to take the reveal of his existence into his own hands.

He knew exactly how to do it.

He grabbed a blank tape, popping it into the recorder on what, given his nature, could only be a whim. Sitting down in Gertrude's chair and kicking his steel-toed boots up onto the Archivist's desk, he pressed play.

"Statement of the entity formerly known as Gerard Keay, currently known as Gerry, about Archivist Gertrude Robinson's failure to get rid of him," he hummed, rocking the chair back to a dangerous degree. "Statement number who-the-fuck-cares, taken directly from subject. Statement begins.

"Hello, Gertrude. Miss me? Rhetorical question, I know. I also know you're a very busy woman, and I personally don't have all day, so I'm going to keep this 'statement' short:

"I lived, bitch. And as long as I stay living, I will make you regret not killing me when you had the chance."

He ended the recording, leaving the tape on the pile of shredded plastic on her desk and disappearing through a baby-blue door with the dinosaur decal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FIC NOW HAS FANART! Go check out this awesome piece by Phantomlore! https://scribblesfromlife.tumblr.com/post/615079833033162752/i-drew-spiralgerry-from-this-fic-that-im-really

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like my work, consider leaving a kudos, and comment if you have anything to say to me! I read every comment left on my work!


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